


Lips & Neck & Tongue & Cheek

by rosy_cheekx



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angry Kissing, Angst and Feels, Domestic Fluff, Established Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Gen, Kissing, Last Kiss, M/M, Romantic Fluff, Snowball Fight, Tim Stoker Angst (The Magnus Archives), anthology of kisses, will update as i add chapters!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:16:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29568774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosy_cheekx/pseuds/rosy_cheekx
Summary: Anthology of kisses courtesy of my tumblr prompts @rosy-cheekx!
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15





	1. Scarves of Red Tied 'Round Their Throats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The park was a field of white, unmarred by footprints or the greyish sludge that comes with city winter. Martin’s camera, looped around his neck, beckoned him and he pointed with the hand that held Jon’s, drawing the other man’s arm up with his.

Martin hated the cold. It had been a long time since the Lonely, and most of that experience had been processed through therapy and quite a few broken plates. And he was fine, really he was, but the cold still sometimes caught him, chilled him deeper than any 0-degree day should. 

Today was not one of those days, thankfully. Martin was warm, bundled up in a thick coat, scarf, and hat, gloved hand enfolding Jon’s between them. The snow was falling thick and slow, and as it landed on Jon’s dark curls and stuck to his eyelashes, Martin’s heart only grew warmer. 

The afternoon had called to them, begged them to experience its natural beauty, and who were they to refuse? The park was a field of white, unmarred by footprints or the greyish sludge that comes with city winter. Martin’s camera, looped around his neck, beckoned him and he pointed with the hand that held Jon’s, drawing the other man’s arm up with his. 

“The tree?” he asked, “Just where those branches jut out? I think it’ll be a great shot.” 

Jon nodded, carefully stomping around the tree as to not disrupt the snow for the photo. Martin had practically _begged_ him to be a subject for his photography class, only agreeing due to a lot of needling and more than a few bribes. Martin owed Jon quite a few cats one day. 

Martin almost forgot what he was supposed to be doing, tripod held limply in his grasp. Jon was a vision in red, stark against the white and brown of the tree. The dress he wore was elegant and form-fitting, flowing out the back. He reminded Martin of a cardinal, a vision in winter. Even though Jon seemed uncomfortable on his face, his body was the picture of elegance, lines sharp and corners soft as he tried to settle the long skirt around his snowboots, effectively hiding them.

“Martin?” Jon called, cheeks flushed from the cold and embarrassment of being so seen. “We ready?” 

Martin fumbled his way through an affirmation as he began to focus on his camera, lining up shots and calling for Jon to turn certain ways, angle his arms, _not out, Jon, up, like you’re floating!_ , and affirmed his every movement, trying to emphasize just how gorgeous Jon looked like this. 

Halfway through Jon’s face had gone from pink to red and his teeth were chattering so loudly that they cut through the city-quiet. “Alright, Jon, you’re doing great, love. Let’s take a break.” He brought Jon’s coat to him and pulled it around his shoulders, pulling him in for a gentle kiss, careful not to muss Jon’s hair. Jon’s arms wound around Martin’s shoulders awkwardly at first while Martin’s cupped his waist, dipping his delicate bird with the care and tender firmness he deserved. 

When Martin felt cold and wet dripping down the back of his neck, assaulting his senses, he screeched, almost dropping Jon and compensated by gripping him tighter. “Jonathan _fucking_ Sims!” He cursed his partner, swiping underneath his scarf with a free hand, trying uselessly to fling the already-melted snow out from his back. Jon was laughing outlandishly, eyes squeezed shut and struggling to breathe. “You prick!” Martin’s grip on Jon’s waist was firm and solid, and he trusted his strength, even as he dipped Jon lower until he was close to the ground, his curls brushing the snow beneath them. 

Jon squirmed, objecting between chuckles rippling out from him. “I-I, I couldn’t _resist,”_ he provided uselessly, as Martin scooped up a handful of snow. “You were being so fucking cute and annoying at the same time!” He shrieked as MArtin sprinkled the snow on his face, the look of malicious joy on his face unforgettable, on Jon only saw when Martin was feeling truly unstoppable.

“You’re useless,” Martin mused, voice full of love as he pressed the last bit of snow to Jon’s forehead and then kissed him, the cold and warmth passing between them so quickly he worried Jon may shatter like glass. He kissed away every last place he had sprinkled snow, warning away the frigid cold and lonely for as long as he could.

Martin hoped at least a few of the pictures were good. 


	2. Not With A Bang But With A Whisper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With that knowledge, Tim knew the warmth he felt along his spine must be Jon, pressed up against him. He considered wedging his way out of it, pretending it had never happened, but…honestly? He didn’t see why he should. _If today was_ , as he suspected it might be, _his last day on Earth,_ _why shouldn’t he enjoy himself? He had always found Jon objectively beautiful. Why rid himself of this small comfort?_

The last normal day. That is what Tim woke up to, as light streamed through the curtains of the bed and breakfast Elias Bouchard had _so generously_ provided them. Tim took mental stock of his faculties, eyes still closed, wincing as he tried to shift and discovered he was weighted down by something. This realization was followed very quickly by a second one: he was lying down. This wasn’t typically unusual, except Tim hadn’t fallen asleep on his back. He had quite specifically fallen asleep sat up, back resting against the weird squishy headboard next to Jon, who had curled up with his back to Tim, taking up as little space as possible. It had almost been pitiful. 

Now, Tim could feel a pillow wedged awkwardly under his shoulders, and felt a warm presence against his side and back. Peeling his eyes open, and _god the amount of alcohol he had consumed last night to even force himself to get to today had dried out his eyes considerably._ Tim shifted enough to see a small brown hand slung over his shoulders, a pale blue sweater (that he swore was Martin’s) covering what Tim knew to be a burn scar, though his dick of a boss wouldn’t tell him what caused it. 

With that knowledge, Tim knew the warmth he felt along his spine must be Jon, pressed up against him. He considered wedging his way out of it, pretending it had never happened, but…honestly? He didn’t see why he should. _If today was_ , as he suspected it might be, _his last day on Earth,_ _why shouldn’t he enjoy himself? He had always found Jon objectively beautiful. Why rid himself of this small comfort?_

So instead he squinted against the light streaming from the windows as he squirmed around to see he was facing Jon instead. They were close, maybe a hand’s length between their faces. Sleep looked good on Jon; the age was smoothed off his face. He still looked waspish but in a more…grim way. Like he was fighting with himself instead of bickering with someone else. He looked almost like someone Tim could still respect. 

Tim pushed a lock of hair away from Jon’s face, an errant strand that had pressed itself under his nose and, while it gave him an excellent mustache, Jon did look like he was struggling to breathe. The motion seemed to rouse Jon and he snapped awake with a start, eyes focusing on Tim in a rush. “T-” 

“Just, shut up. Everything’s fine. Okay?” 

Jon nodded, lips pursed and eyes searching Tim’s face, clearly looking for something. Whether he found it or not, Tim wasn’t sure, but Jon’s eyes softened and the hand that had been tucked under Jon’s own head came up to wrap around his abdomen, clearly a nervous habit. Suddenly Tim felt very cold and a shudder wracked through him. 

Jon wordlessly shifted the blankets, trying to pull the thin hotel-duvet closer. His arm that had been slung over Tim’s side now hung over his back, as well as most of his abdomen and head, in a half embrace as he tried to make Tim comfortable, even after he had been so horrible to him for… _god, weeks? Months_? It felt like a lifetime of horrible crammed into such a short timeframe. Not that he didn’t deserve it, but…still.

Still.

As Jon shifted back, still without a word, he and Tim, somehow a perfect storm, rearranged themselves at the wrong ways at the wrong times. Tim tried to roll over to give Jon more space, head tilting, and Jon tried to come back to his side of the bed. Tim wasn’t really sure what had happened, but he felt the brush of Jon’s face, Jon’s lips, on the corner of his lips, just barely. The act made Tim shiver for an entirely different reason. 

Jon’s breath caught in his throat, too nervous to say anything, even an apology. But Tim’s hand was on Jon’s cheek, cupping his jaw before he could realize what he was doing. Jon raised an eyebrow in surprise.

“What? Like you don’t know you’re hot.” Jon blushed at Tim’s words. 

“I just-Tim, now? Really?” 

“Why not.” It wasn’t a question. Jon didn’t need to know just how little Tim expected to come back from this. “I can’t make things right, and I don’t have anything to apologize for, but I just…I don’t want to leave any regrets behind.”

Jon seemed to follow his meaning a little too well, and took the initiative to slot his lips against Tim’s, kissing him fervently, elbows tucked on either side of his head and fingers just barely grazing his hair. Tim’s fingers curled decidedly into Jon’s hair and it was softer than he could have ever expected it to be. Jon’s lips were warm, if a little chapped from nervous biting, but Tim couldn’t say his were any different. His tongue was warm against his and they were both a strange mix of fervent and lackadaisical, neither wanting to go any farther but not really wanting to stop. If there was such thing as hate-sex, could there be hate-kissing? _That’s what it must be,_ Tim decided as he pressed a hand against Jon’s spine. _Just hate-kisses, that’s all._

_Not a bad last kiss, all told._


End file.
